


peonies

by AlmondRose



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, some minor violence but it's okay :-)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-07-27 22:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16228808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmondRose/pseuds/AlmondRose
Summary: Jason comes back. Maybe everything will be better.





	1. Chapter 1

Jason opens his eyes, and he doesn’t remember where he is. 

 

The wherever-he-is is cold, and dark, and smells--musty? Like something died, Jason decides. 

 

His back hurts and his arms hurt and his chest hurts--breathing hurts, but Jason does it, in and out, in and out, because he doesn’t know what else to focus on. When he tries to move, he can’t. Jason decides he must be in a very small space.

 

Maybe he’s been captured, he thinks, although the familiar pressure of the mask around his eyes is gone, and he thinks he has on long sleeves. Not impossible for Jason Wayne to be captured, though, so he closes his eyes--not that it makes any difference, visibility-wise--and tries to think of where he was before this.

 

For a frightening few moments, the only thing he can remember is Nothing, but then Jason pushes through the Nothing, and then--what’s on the other side is worse.

 

Pain, sharp and repetitive, all over his body and in his heart, and tears flowing down his face, and choking on the taste of blood, and everywhere, everywhere--that  _ laugh.  _ Jason doesn’t know how he can escape it, and he hears it even now. 

 

Forgetting himself, he tries to sit up, but he hits his head on something only a few feet above him and lurches back down, cursing and crying from the pain that wells up in his forehead. 

 

All he remembers from before is pain and laughter, and his mother--no, not his mother--and a pale face, and green hair, and a red red mouth, stretched wide on either side. Jason remembers crawling towards his mo--towards Sheila, and he remembers beeping, rapid and shrill, and then--and then the Nothing. 

 

And now he’s trapped, and his arms are pinned to his side, and there’s something right above him, and his feet are flat against something on the other end. Jason extracts an arm painfully, reaching up, and feeling along the hard surface above him. 

 

He concludes that he’s in some sort of box. 

 

When he tries to think of  _ why  _ he would be in a box, his mind starts to shutter and falter, so instead he reaches up, and with all his might he shoves and kicks at the roof above him. 

 

His mind blurs and he feels frantic, like he needs to breathe fresh air, and he scratches and claws at the wood above him. 

 

The wood gives away, hours or years or seconds later, and dirt falls onto his head and Jason spits and reaches up. He digs, trying to make space above his head, and when he has the space he draws his legs up into an awkward squat and keeps digging up. 

 

Dirt falls onto his face and in his eyes and his mouth and he keeps pushing at the dirt, trying to get up. His legs are sore--how long had he been laying down there?--and his arms are frantic and he keeps moving, going up and pushing and shoving and scrabbling at the dirt and then--his hand breaks past something and he feels  _ air  _ on his fingertips. 

 

His heart races and he moves impossibly faster to pull himself up--and then he’s up and out of the ground and laying on the sweet, sweet grass, and it’s raining and Jason rolls over and turns his face towards the sky--it smells like rain, and like smog, and like  _ Gotham. _

 

Jason isn’t sure where the rain on his face ends and the tears begin, but he’s sobbing. He curls up on himself and dimly notes the nice slacks he’s wearing, all covered in mud and dirt, and he cries into his knees. 

 

His pants smell like dust and like blood and like mud but Jason doesn’t care, and sobbing means he’s breathing and that he’s  _ alive  _ and the cold rain on his face means he’s not in a coffin in a hole in the ground anymore, and Jason wants to move, to get out of the graveyard, but everything hurts and he can’t bring himself to get up. 

 

“I want my dad,” Jason whispers into his pants, and his voice feels rusty from disuse but he’s glad to hear it, all the same. 

 

He lifts his head from it’s position and tries to uncurl his arms but can’t, and he settles for yelling into the rain, “I WANT MY DAD!”

 

His voice cracks but Jason doesn’t care, and he doesn’t know who’ll hear, and it’s night and it’s Gotham and Jason rolls over, peeks between buildings.

 

The Signal shines dully in the sky and Jason whispers, “Batman….”

 

He wants Batman to come save him from this graveyard more than anything. He remembers wanting Batman to come for him, back in--in Ethiopia, and he remembers Batman not coming.

 

But this isn’t Ethiopia, this is--this is Gotham. This is Batman’s territory. This is--Batman knows everything that happens here. Batman will come. Batman will be here. 

 

Jason doesn’t want Batman to find him curled up on the ground sobbing, so he unfolds and with shaking arms drags himself to the nearest slab of stone to lean on. He leans back and spreads his legs out before him, looking at his once-shiny shoes, covered in dirt. 

 

Jason’s dimly aware that he’s leaning against a grave. He pats the ground next to him weakly and whispers a quiet, “Thank you,” to whoever-it-is that he’s leaning against. He sighs, exhausted, and considers--going home, but he can’t move enough to do that, doesn’t trust himself to be able to do that without being on the rooftops, and he doesn’t think he can get up onto a rooftop, doesn’t have a grapple.

 

Instead, he waits, and he wants to close his eyes, wants to try and sleep, but--every time his eyes shut he sees green and red and white and purple and he hears the laugh, again and again and he doesn’t think that sleeping would be the wisest choice right now. 

 

The night drags on. 

 

The Batsignal turns off, and dawn peeks from the corners of the buildings, and nobody is coming for Jason. 

 

Nobody is coming for him, and the knowledge settles, heavy in his chest. Jason’s eyes sting and the laugh in his head is faint and his stomach rumbles, and nobody who’s passed by has looked twice at him. A kid sitting in the graveyard, wearing a full suit and covered in mud? Just another day in Gotham. 

 

Jason leans his head against the grave, staring up at the grey clouds rolling across the sky. 

 

For the first time in a long time, he feels very, very alone. 

  
  


There’s a soft crunch, somewhere next to him, and Jason is too tired to move his head, to see what it is. There is no sound unless you know to listen for it, and Jason had the very best training. 

 

A shadow falls over him, and Jason turns his head. 

 

Batman is wrapped in darkness, even in the early morning sun, and his expression would be unreadable if Jason didn’t know better. 

 

“Jay….” Batman says, his voice rough and hopeful and so full of joy. It reminds Jason of when Bruce asked if he could adopt Jason. 

 

“Dad,” Jason mumbles, too tired to say anything else. 

 

The next thing he knows, he’s in Batman’s arms, in  _ Bruce’s  _ arms, and the cloak is draped around him, and he can hear Bruce’s heartbeat. It’s calming, and breathes in and out with it. 

 

He remembers to check the grave he was laying against, to see the name of the person who’d given him companionship over the last few hours. 

 

The words swim but then come into focus. 

 

_ Stephanie Brown.  _

 

Stephanie Brown’s name has some other words beneath it, and a little carving--of a bird, maybe? above her name. 

 

Jason doesn’t know who Stephanie Brown is, but her gravestone looks new and Jason doesn’t know if he believes in heaven or dead people watching over him--he’d been dead, after all, and he doesn’t really think there’s anything besides life--but he sends up a thank you to her anyway, for being with him. 

 

Bruce turns away from the graveyard, walking carefully, and Jason reaches out, curls his fist around Bruce’s cape.

 

“I missed you,” he says, as clear as he can, and Bruce gives him a small, fond smile. 

 

Bruce sits him down in the Batmobile, curling the seatbelt around him protectively, then he drives back home.

 

Jason’s face presses against the window, and he smiles at Gotham whizzing past, and when the city turns to grass turns to stone the Batmobile stops. 

 

Bruce gets out and helps Jason out, too. Jason clutches Bruce’s gauntlet and stands on wobbly legs for the first time in who-knows-how-long. 

 

From across the cave, Alfred drops a tray and the cups on top of it. 

 

Jason takes a few wobbly steps forward, pulling Bruce with him, and Alfred takes the rest of the steps to meet in the sort-of-middle, and he wraps his arms around him and Jason inhales the pepperminty, lemon-scented-Pine-Sol Alfred smell and says, “ _ Alfred.” _

 

“Oh, Master Jason,” Alfred says. “I’m here.”

 

“Alfred,” Jason says again, sobbing into his shoulder, and then he feels a hand on his own shoulder, and turns, and it’s Bruce, cowlless. 

 

Bruce’s face is worn and tired and unbelievably happy, and Jason lets go of Alfred and turns to Bruce. Bruce envelops him, still so much bigger than Jason, and Jason cries into his dad’s chest. 

 

“Call Dick and Babs,” Bruce says, his voice rumbling, and Jason squeezes him tighter. 

 

He hears Alfred’s footsteps retreating, and he whispers, “How long was it?”

 

“Almost two years, son,” Bruce says, and Jason thinks he should cry harder into Bruce’s chest, but before he can, the sound of a call connecting from the Batcomputer rings and Jason turns away. 

 

Barbara got a haircut, Jason thinks, looking at her face while Alfred tells her what happened. Her hair is short, framing her face, and she has new glasses. The screen splits and the sound chimes again, and Dick looks mostly the same, but--older. Tireder. 

 

Dick’s face contorts, and Babs has silent tears flowing down her cheeks. Alfred turns back to Jason, motions for him to come, and Jason walks over, Bruce right behind him. 

 

“Jay,” Dick breathes, when Jason’s in sight of the camera. “Little Wing.”

 

“Hi,” Jason says, shyly. 

 

“Oh my god,” Barbara says. “ _ Jason.”  _

 

Jason feels guilty for dying and for giving them all these emotions, but Babs is smiling and Jason thinks Dick is too, and he feels overwhelmingly happy, instead of sad in any way. 

 

Sure, he was dead, but now--now he’s back. Now he’s back, and he doesn’t have any reason to be sad. Everything--everything is going to be okay. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i cut out the middle chapter i was gonna write and so this is the end of the fic! no tim & cass (false advertising on my part) but this chapter is Very Valid get hyped

Jason is angry.

 

Bruce leaves the batmobile at home and instead goes on foot, walking from the Manor to Gotham.

 

Jason is very, very angry.

 

He has every reason to be, Bruce thinks, his cape swirling around him, and his strides purposeful.

 

After all, Tim quit Robin so Steph was Robin and Steph is dead and Tim is Robin.

 

Bruce’s legs burn but he pretends they don’t. He still has miles to go, on his walk.

 

Babs was Batgirl is Oracle is paralyzed and the Joker--the Joker.

 

Bruce’s hands are empty. He has nothing besides the belt around his waist, the cape on his back, the cowl on his head.

 

The Joker is still alive, and Jason is angry.

 

Bruce looks steadily ahead, at the long road before him.

 

Black Mask is still alive, and Cluemaster is still alive, and Stephanie is not, and Jason is angry.

 

The distance blurs, and Bruce doesn’t know how long he’s been marching towards Gotham.

 

Black Mask--that’s a problem, Bruce will admit. Cluemaster--a different sort of problem. Solvable problems, problems for later.

 

Bruce reaches Gotham, his legs burning and his heart steady, steady, steady. He breathes in, out, and clenches his fist, and he keeps walking to the Iceberg Lounge.

 

The Iceberg is usually Penguin’s turf, but Cobblepot is in Arkham. Someone else is crashing there, now. A well-placed bribe and promise had gotten Isley to sing like a canary, not that Bruce even needed to try that hard.

 

Isley was always loose-lipped when it came to the Joker, and Bruce always laughed when he thought about the carelessness the Joker took with his location, always so, so secret, except for his loyal little Harley, who’d never, ever betray him.

 

Ha.

 

Bruce takes the long way, meandering through alleys. He spotts what he’s looking for and picks it up, holding it under his cloak and smiling grimly.

 

He makes it to the Iceberg Lounge and slips inside, using a window. He sticks to the shadows, creeping along the walls. He can hear the Joker’s voice, loud and laughing, and Bruce thinks, with a sense of detached irony, that this really will be the last laugh.

 

The Joker is in the main room, and Bruce comes in from behind. Nobody else is there besides Harley, and she is facing him.

 

Her mouth falls open and she starts to mouth his name, but Bruce holds up a finger, shushing her. She closes her mouth, and Bruce comes closer, making no noise, holding up the crowbar.

 

Harley taks a step back.

 

“What are you doing, Harls, I’m talking to you,” Joker asks, turning around to see what she’s looking at, and when his back is turned, Harley runs, and Bruce brings the crowbar down on his face.

 

Batman doesn’t kill.

 

 

Batman isn’t here tonight.

 

 

Bruce is wearing Batman’s suit, and Bruce is holding a crowbar, and Bruce is beating the fucking life out of the Joker, and Bruce--Bruce isn’t smiling, Bruce isn’t enjoying this, but Bruce--Bruce is thinking of his son, and righting some wrongs.

 

Dick won’t approve.

 

Tim won’t approve.

 

Cass won’t approve.

 

Barbara will.

 

Alfred will.

 

 

 

Jason will.

 

 

 

It’s three for three. It’s Batman versus Bruce. It’s a no-brainer. Bruce has always been both stronger and weaker than Batman, which is the whole point.

 

This, Bruce thinks, as he brings down the crowbar, is for Harley.

 

This, he thinks, as he brings it down again, is for the people of Gotham.

 

This, he thinks, as he brings it down another time, is for Babs.

 

And this, he thinks, as he deals the killing blow, and the Joker breathes for the last fucking time, is for Jason.

 

Bruce kneels back on his heels, and stares up at the ceiling, covered in blood, and he thinks that now everything--everything--will be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and then he takes the crowbar, and finds black mask, and fucking demolishes him. :)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! comments/kudos always welcome!


End file.
